Into the Dragon's Mouth
by Azul Bleu
Summary: Tidings of a massive fleet buildup at Umbar arrive in Minas Tirith, borne by a strange messenger, and Thorongil proposes his plan.


This is a little something I wrote over 3 months... I have some idea where the story is going... Got some details wrong, my friend said Imrahil was born way after the Raid took place.

* * *

Echthelion Steward of Gondor sat at the foot of the Throne, in the place where his forefathers had sat since the days of Mardil, and since the days before Mardil. A gesture of his hand signalled the great doors to the Throne Room to be opened. Servants in the alcoves to either side of the doors pulled on the rings, and the gilded doors swung inward.

Down the aisle lined with images of Kings long gone the guest strode, flanked by Guards clad in mithril, their winged helms glittering in the shaft shot through the window by the early morning sun. The dark surcoats of the Guards were emblazoned with the Seven Stars and White Tree of Gondor, which now shone, as if wrought of ithildin set aglow in the moon. A torc of gold wire twisted adorned the neck of the stranger, almost vying for the light with his golden hair. Red was the armour he wore, of scales of iron lacquered. His dark cloak was crusted with salt, and his face was burned red from the sun from long travel. His curved sword he left outside.

Coming before the Steward, Buyuk the Southron bowed deeply, in the manner of his country, and then rose. The Guards did not blink.

At Echthelion's right was young Denethor, and upon his left stood Thorongil of the North. All were clad in mail, and girt with swords, the Northerner having earned the Steward's trust and the right to be armed in his presence many times over. The seething in Denethor's heart was known to few.

Echthelion nodded, and the Guards bowed their heads, moving backwards. When they were a fathom from the door they straightened, turned as one, and strode out. The servants followed them out, pulling the doors shut behind them.

"Hail Buyuk of the Harad. What brings you hither into the heartland of your enemies?"

"Hail Steward of Gondor. I bring tidings of a great armament prepared. Great were the fleets of Gondor of old, but there is now no force at the quays of Pelargir sufficient for your defence. If you would save Pelargir, and Lebennin, and other coastal lands beside, you would heed me."

"And why should we believe you, Southron?" Denethor challenged, his voice echoing in the cold marble. But Thorongil gazed silently at the stranger.

Echthelion waved for silence. "It is rare for foxes to sleep with hens, or wolves to suckle sheep. Wise is the shepherd who keeps such beasts at a distance."

Buyuk parried, "Nor is it common for fish to swim into the mouths of otters, my lord. Wise is the suitor who accepts the hand of a maiden wherein no dower is required. I am at your mercy. Is that not enough?"

They were speaking Mannish, for Buyuk knew no Elven-speech. But the tongue of Buyuk had a strange sound to it; it was closer to the old forms of Adunaic, now disregarded in Gondor and Arnor in favour of Sindarin.

"If the bride to be may be a hag behind her veil, and a witch beside, the suitor had best beware." countered Denethor.

"Lewd is the suitor who asks a maiden to dance naked in the square, good my Lords," interrupted Thorongil, smiling. "Sure is the victory of two against one. Shall we save our fencing for a later time?"

Denethor was silent, though not pacified.

Turning to Buyuk, Thorongil spoke, "I presume this fleet is being assembled at Umbar, Southron? Tell us of its numbers, and of what ships they be."

"Nay, you are wise Thorongil," said Echthelion, "but I have eaten more salt, and am wiser. Tell me, Buyuk, why have you forsaken your countrymen and lords, and their great powers of ships and men massed up, to join with Gondor assailed on all sides? And let us not start another bout of fencing."

Buyuk was silent for a time.

"The Lords I obeyed are beholden to the Dark Tower, in that land that lies so near to you in the East. Great powers we have mustered and massed, and victory will surely be with the Haradrim." began Buyuk grimly.

"So certain are you," said Denethor," Do you reckon so little of our strength?"

"Patience, my son!" said Echthelion. "We shall fence another time. Continue, Buyuk."

Buyuk glanced between Denethor and the Steward. Doubt was in his face, and he felt Thorongil's searching gaze on him. Thorongil nodded at him, and he continued.

"But should we achieve victory, what then? I have sought reports and tales of that Dark Land that you do not name aloud. They say it is a land of ash, of sulphur, stones and thorns. Orcs there are in great numbers. Say what you will of the Haradrim, we have no great love of the Orcs, for they be foul and uncouth creatures, and our women are not safe from them. There is nothing that grows in the Dark Land, and in the lands near to it there is naught but dearth and death.

"My Lords, if the Dark Tower triumphs, will all the lands will be reduced to this? What is the meaning of lordship, if we are but kings of desolation, and our dominions lands cursed with poison? I would rather be a ruler of no man, than a lord of wastes."

Thorongil studied his face wordlessly. Denethor was silent, masking his doubt. Echthelion stroked his white beard.

"Go now," said Echthelion at length. "We will consider your words. But now, we have lodgings prepared for you in the City, and we bid you rest. For you have travelled far by sea, and then up the Great River from Pelargir. Let it not be said that the Men of Gondor have no courtesy to guests. But you will understand if we keep you posted with guards."

Echthelion struck a small gong, and the doors opened again. The Guards of the Tower entered, and a young squire was summoned, and the Steward commanded that the Southron be found suitable dwellings, and put under guard.

When all was done, and the three were again alone, Denethor said, "Father, do you mean to trust this Southron?"

"There is also the matter of what action we shall take, should his words prove true."

Thorongil said, frowning. What he had read in Buyuk's countenance clearly troubled him, but whether he doubted the Southron's word, or was pondering the dire import of his news, he would not say.

"That is no riddle, Northlander," smiled Denethor, but no warmth was in it. "Great strength of men we have on the sea-walls of Pelargir, and great engines are mounted, and weapons of burning fire we have. The might of Gondor is not like that of other lands. Let them come within our reach, and feel fire, stones and steel."

"Yet the Southron reckoned little of our defences, mighty though we deem them to be. And he has seen some of it, passing upriver on his way. And if the fleet should land elsewhere? Lebennin and Langstrand of many rivers may be their object."

"If this Southron is truthful," said Denethor. "He may be toying with us. Or would you have us assail them in their own strongholds and quays?"

"Enough!" commanded Echthelion." I shall summon him again at noon. Then I will say what I will say."

And that council was ended.

* * *

The bells in the City of Guard rang the hour of noon, and Buyuk was again led to the Hall at the foot of the White Tower built long ago by Echthelion I. But when he came there the doors were shut, for the Steward was in council. But he would be summoned ere long, so he deemed it better to wait nearby than return to his lodgings.

In the heat of noon Buyuk wandered alone in the garden and under the trees in the grove. The sun in Gondor was of lesser strength than in the southlands, but Buyuk had washed, and his golden hair was brushed, and he was in no mind to appear hot and dishevelled before the Steward.

But he was curious as to the herbs and plants that were in the garden. Near a fountain a tree lay dead uprooted, and Buyuk could see that its bark and wood had once been white. Recalling legends he had once heard, he guessed that this was the White Tree of the Kings of Gondor, and doubt came into his mind. Was this an ill omen, that Gondor would be uprooted and his cause lost?

Buyuk's ancestry was that of the King's Men of Numenor, but diluted by time and by mingling with the lesser races. But the Kinstrife of Gondor so long ago brought a fresh infusion of Numenorean blood among the ruling houses of Harad, when the backers of pure-blooded Castamir fled south following defeat by that mongrel Vinitharya. They say this Vinitharya's mother was a wild woman of the Northern horsemen. Many tales the exiles bore, of Osgiliath of many bridges, and Minas Anor to the west with its seven tiers and high walls, and the Winged Crown of Gondor that was made of mithril. He had never seen mithril, though he supposed the gleaming armour of the Guards was of that metal.

In the passing of time many things changed. Royal Osgiliath was in ruins, and had been for centuries, to Buyuk's surprise and disappointment when he first arrived. Vinitharya's line had ended. This was no surprise, for it was foretold by the partisans of Castamir; what was to be expected of such lowly lineage and polluted blood? But he had hoped to see the famous White Tree.

Raising his palm toward it to avert ill omen, he turned away.

Amid the shrubs and herbs and blossoms he was drawn to a rose.

The rose had come into its full bloom only that morning, and its ruddy petals were like the lips of women. In Harad they made perfumes distilled from such blossoms, but the scent of fresh roses was to him something to be cherished. For the heat of boiling renders the scent strong, yet something of its bouquet is destroyed, something intangible yet vital. Bowing his head he partook of the scent, then withdrew.

His fingers caressed the petals, and they were like the silk drapes of his great house, smooth and cool to his fingers. Such perfection, so soon to pass, like the lives of Men they bud, they bloom, and they fall: but its scent and colour remain in the mind of its Beholder who will say, "Ah! In the garden of so-and-so I saw such a fine blossom that was not like to any other."

He had been of a mind to take the rose, but he was moved by its impermanent beauty, and demurred, lowering his hand. He gazed at it for long moments. Then he bowed in honour of its beauty and turned away.

From a high window the Steward unseen peered down on the garden below, and he smiled. Coming down the stairs he found Thorongil waiting, and said, "I have seen enough."

* * *

The swan-prowed warship was sighted from far off, and on the sea-walls of Pelargir there was a stir of excitement. Those were days of intrigue for the Men who kept guard in the city of ships ever since the Southron had been brought there. His black longship was still moored at one of the piers since it was brought in escorted by a dromond of Gondor but two days past, sailing in on the wind from the river's mouth. The dromond was then anchored some way off shore, and the Viceroy of Pelargir had gone on board, rowed there in a small boat. After less than hour he had come ashore again. He said nothing, but his face was grim.

That very evening the dromond had raised anchor and sailed upstream to Minas Tirith.

And the orders went out: the engines, the stone-flingers, and the ballistae upon the towers and battlements of the sea-walls were inspected and their sinews tightened. Men were summoned from their homes and the strength upon the defences was doubled. Pitch was brought up for the fire-arrows and bolts, and the stockpiles of missiles were added upon.

On the next day men practiced their shooting upon the water, aiming the ballistae against rafts both anchored and those set adrift in the water to gauge and adjust for firing range.

Young Imrahil watched the preparations with great interest, standing upon the battlements watching the defenders of Pelargir load and discharge their artillery in flaming volleys like a rain of falling stars. And so it was, despite his apparent lack of occupation (besides offering the occasional hand carrying armfuls of arrows) he failed to notice the swan-prowed ship coming downriver, until the call went out to cease fire, and the Gondorians abruptly halted their practice.

Imrahil cast his eyes upstream, and his youthful sea-grey eyes discerned upon the prow the gleam of yellow hair of a man in red armour. Even for a Dunadan youth his sight was deemed exceptionally keen, and it was whispered that one of his forefathers long ago had wedded a wild elf-girl.

Imrahil's friends would joke about his keen sight at times, saying he could peep at blond maidens bathing in far-off Rohan from the comfort and safety of a high window in Gondor. This always made him splutter abashedly, and was of course untrue... though he was actually rather curious about the golden-haired Rohirrim. Many fine men of Rohan served with the forces of Gondor, and Thengel their King had actually been raised in Minas Tirith. The tall golden-haired Men made a fine sight, striding down the streets singing their strange songs.

So he did wonder at times what the Rohirrim women might be like. Was it true that they were all trained at the sword? Why was it then that he had never seen a horsewoman of Rohan in Gondor? And as for peeping...

"Is it the Southron prince?" asked Brego. Imrahil jumped.

"A-aye, so it would seem. He is standing at the prow freely," Imrahil replied.

Brego scowled disgustedly, having no great love of the Haradrim. Despite that, he stood beside Imrahil and watched as the ship approached, shipping her oars and her crew throwing down lines to the longshoremen in their boats to be towed to the quays.

When the ship had been moored at the docks, gangplanks were lowered. The Southron, a tall figure strode down to the land, and throughout the battlements there was a susurration of whispers. For some, this was their first sighting of a Haradrim warrior. Others wondered that a man of Harad may come to walk in Pelargir.

Another round of murmurs, more cheerful this time, went all around as another figure stepped down on to dry land. This person was tall and dark. Imrahil had never seen him before, but Brego grinned.

"Ah, Thorongil is here."

"Thorongil? That man is Thorongil?" gaped Imrahil. "This is a day of marvels!" The feats of Thorongil were renowned in Gondor and Rohan. Some said he was of Rohan, but the Rohirrim themselves said that he had come from the wilds, perhaps from among the hardy woodsmen who settle the lands west of Mirkwood. There was also rumour that he was one of the mysterious Dunedain of the North, about whom many stories were told but none had been seen.

But most folk in Gondor reckoned that their northern kinsmen had perished entirely in the bitter wars against Angmar. And Thorongil himself would say neither yea nor nay to this story or that.

But all fell silent when an elder in white robes came down from the ship. In his hand was the White Rod of the Stewards. Echthelion himself had come.

Clearly these were days of peril.

Brego laid his hand on Imrahil's shoulder. "Come, lad. I have spent all morning looking for you, before Amrod told me where you were. You are supposed to be at the stables." Brego was training Imrahil in horsemanship, for the riders of Rohan knew more of horses and their use than all other folk, more even than the men of Gondor. In later years during the War of the Ring this training would find grim use on the fields of the Pelennor, when with consummate skill he led the Swan-Knights of Dol Amroth to rout a Harad force pursuing Faramir in the dayless evening.

For now, though, it simply meant that young Imrahil had missed his morning lesson. And Brego could be a tough master at times.

"The stables could use some cleaning."

Imrahil groaned. Brego slapped him on the back, laughing, as they descended from the battlements to the city below.

* * *

The Sea-captains of Gondor were in council. The news brought to them by Buyuk the Southron had wrought upon them much consternation. Some had been of a mind to dismiss the report as lies and fabrication, but Thorongil himself believed him, and the Steward too had vouched for his honesty.

The fleet of the Haradrim being assembled at Umbar was far too great to confront on the open ocean. The hope of the Gondorians was to fight in narrow waters where their disadvantage in numbers would not tell on them. Indeed Captain Haldad wanted to make their stand at Pelargir itself, hoping to pin the Haradrim between the Gondorian fleet and the sea-wall.

But Thorongil pointed out that it was far from certain that Pelargir was indeed the prize, and not such softer targets as Lebennin, or Dol Amroth. It was not even certain that the Haradrim would even seek battle on the water, for their fleet was numerous enough to blockade the mouths of Anduin with but a third, while landing their soldiery elsewhere.

Other captains averred that not even the city's sea-defences could hold against such a vast number of the enemy. And the loss of Pelargir could lose the Gondorians control of the near seas.

Echthelion was silent, for in the matters of the sea it was best to leave the captains to their wisdom, which is not like to the running of an army on land. Long are the days gone when a war-leader had skill in battles on both land and sea. The Kings Hyarmendacil, and Umbardacil, they had such mastery, but not Echthelion the Steward. Too much meddling could lead to disaster.

An hour's argument, and the Captains are not yet agreed on any plan. Buyuk sat glowering in his chair at the back, ignored for the most part. The Steward smiled, and the Southron shrugged helplessly.

"We stand at the gates of doom, and they haggle like women in the market," sighed the Southron. "At best there is scantly a week before the soldiery of Harad are assembled, and two before the necessary provisions for a lengthy campaign are gathered."

"If we but knew where the Haradrim would land," scowled Captain Haldad, "We might come to a swift decision that is to your liking. What crumbs you give to us! From a grain of corn do you expect many loaves."

"Peace, Haldad!" said Thorongil, his hand raised. "We know not where they plan to assail us. But we do know where they are: in the havens until the supplies are laden, as our ally here has said. How long before they sail?"

"A week, for the mustering of men. Two for the gathering of supplies. I have mentioned this before," grumbled Buyuk, glaring at Haldad, "if any were listening."

"And what of it?" demanded the Captain glaring back at the two outlanders, the Northerner and the Southerner.

"We shall strike them in their own havens instead. The harbour of Umbar is well-sheltered, with a small mouth. We might pin them there." Thorongil proposed.

"Loath am I to risk our fleet in such a manner!! If we are spotted, and we surely will, they would sail out, to battle on open water, and we are lost."

"A full battle fleet would be spotted in a trice, it is true. And the provisioning would take too long. They may be a-sail ere we raise anchor," said Thorongil, but he smiled.

The Captains were on their feet, mouths agape, for it was dawning on them what Thorongil of the North was about to propose.

Thorongil spoke, his eyes gleaming, "However, a small raiding fleet might take them unaware while they are still lading and their army is still yet gathering. Indeed that is the best time to strike. And short will be the time required to provision the small fleet."

The room exploded into argument.

"Madman!" roared Haldad. Several captains agreed with him.

Others took Thorongil's side. "Yea more!! It would be a blow they would scarce expect!"

Thorongil turned to the Steward. "My Lord Steward, the Captains are divided. What say you?"

Echthelion decided the matter for them.


End file.
